


thou fond deceiver

by silveronthetree



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper, Susan Cooper - Dark Is Rising series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveronthetree/pseuds/silveronthetree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over Christmas with the Stantons, Bran begins to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thou fond deceiver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antumbral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/gifts).



> Thanks to my wonderful betas. Title from Memory by Oliver Goldsmith.

**The Invitation**

"What are you up to this Christmas?" Will asked.

Bran looked up from the essay he was writing for a tutorial the next day, and over at his friend in surprise. He shrugged. It was only November and he really wasn't thinking that far ahead. "Dunno? Going home, I suppose. I hadn't really thought about it yet."

They were sitting in the library and their conversation was confined to whispers.

"Want to come to my house?" Will asked casually, not even looking at Bran. But Bran could tell that it was a serious invitation.

"I'll think about it," he said. "They may need me at the farm."

To be honest he wasn't very enthusiastic about returning to the farm to see his Da this year. The summer had been odd. Going back after the longest time he had ever spent away had been difficult. He didn't fit back neatly into his father's routine. There were too many restrictions and his father had acted as if he hadn't been away. Only the others at the farm had asked about his first year at university. He hadn't mentioned this to Will directly, but he wondered if Will had picked it up and that was the reason behind the invitation.

He bent back over his essay, but the flow of ideas was gone. Instead he mulled over the invitation. There was the chance to spend more time with Will. Although Will was still his closest friend, Bran hadn't spent as much time with him as he'd expected when they had discovered that they were both going to study at Oxford. Different subjects, and more importantly, different colleges had prevented that. During those first hectic weeks it had been good to know that there was someone familiar amongst the huge student body, even if they had barely had a chance to meet. However, joining the hill-walking club meant that they hadn't completely lost contact.

He and Will had talked vaguely of getting digs together, rooms in one of the houses in the town, but it hadn't happened this year. Bran had a feeling that the comfort and familiarity of the college would win out, particularly in the busy final year.

Bran had thrown himself into university life. His unusual looks weren't such a burden here. He stood out all right, but in a positive way. He'd been the club president and a member of the orchestra. Will, on the other hand, was always busy with his academic work. He'd won some scholarship, the Lyon Prize for Anthropology, Bran thought it was. And that required him to work all possible hours. By the end of the year, it was all Bran could do to drag him out at the weekends.

A train fare back to North Wales would be expensive, and there was the offer of a harp recital in Oxford on Boxing Day. The organisers would pay and he needed every bit of money he could save, if he wanted to pay for his half of the car he and Will were thinking of buying. Oxford was so flat and sometimes he felt too penned in. A car would allow him, them, to escape whenever he wished. Odd days away with the hill-walking club weren't the same. If he spent a few extra weeks in England now, away from the mountains he missed, it would allow unlimited freedom later.

Will would be far easier company than his father and Bran really missed spending time with him. That finalised his decision.

He turned back to Will. "I'll come."

**The Arrival**

Will's sister Mary met them at the station with a small, rusty car. He remembered her a little from her visit to Wales. She was plumper than he'd remembered and her long blonde hair had been teased into a mass of curls. Mary hadn't stopped talking for the entire journey. Bran hadn't said much and let Will carry on the conversation. The two Stantons had a lot to catch up on. He was still exhausted from staying up late the previous night. They'd spent the evening at the union bar in honour of Will's twentieth birthday. It had been a long one and afterwards he hadn't slept until the early hours.

When they reached the Stantons' house, Mary dropped them with their cases by the front door and went to park the car. Before they reached the door, it was opened and a broad, smiling woman stood in the doorway. In the light spilling out of the house, he could see she had a round face and straight hair, so like Will, but the hair was longer and the colour was faded with fine grey strands running through it.

"You must be Bran." She invited him into the house, a hand outstretched in welcome.

He took it in his own; it was a sturdy work roughened hand, in contrast to the delicate workmanship of the ring adorning it. But instead of the brisk shake he expected, he was drawn into a warm hug.

"It's lovely to finally meet you, dear," she said when she let go. "Thank you so much for looking after Will that summer. He was so very ill, and we were very worried."

"Er, thanks," Bran said with some confusion. He hadn't been expecting that kind of welcome.

She looked fondly at Will, who was standing just behind him, a case in each hand. "He looked like a new boy when he came back, and wouldn't talk of anything but you for ages. He was so excited when he found out that you would be at university together."

"Mu-um," Will said in protest, his cheeks pink. But it was good to hear that Will had been as happy to see him, as he had been to see Will. Will was so self contained sometimes, that Bran didn't know what he was thinking.

"Sorry, dear," she said with amusement. "Come in, both of you, supper is almost ready."

* * *

Bran walked into the kitchen of the Stanton's house behind Will, after they had stowed their bags away in Will's attic room. A stocky, older man sat one end of the long wooden table, engrossed in the remains of an old radio, and looked up briefly and nodded as they came in. Most likely Will's father. Mary was washing her hands at the sink and Mrs Stanton was setting out food on the table.

"Liver and bacon tonight, as we missed your birthday yesterday, Will."

"Lovely. Thanks, Mum." Will took a dish out of his mother's hands and set it on the table.

Bran hesitated in the doorway, and then started as something brushed against his leg. It was a dog, a familiar looking welsh sheepdog, with large white patches on a dark coat. She looked up at him, her tongue hanging out and tail wagging furiously.

"Hey girl!" He bent and trailed his fingers through the soft fur on her head. "Is this Carys?"

"Yes," Will answered, "Uncle David sent her here when they realised she wasn't going to be much use for herding sheep."

Bran felt his nervousness slip away in the face of the second warm welcome and the familiarity of the squirming furry body beneath his fingers.

"She was a real nightmare." He smiled to soften the words. "Wouldn't go near the sheep, all she wanted to do was to chase after her tail. I hadn't realised they'd sent her here."

"Our old dog, Raq, had just died and we wanted a companion for Ci." Will pointed to the elderly looking dog sitting by the fire. "She fits in well here. Welsh sheepdogs are the best, although this one is a little on the daft side." He exchanged a smile with Bran.

Bran's own smile was tinged with sorrow. "Not everyone can have a dog that can see the wind."

"Sorry?" Will said, looking startled.

Bran shrugged. He wasn't quite sure what made him say it. But the phrase seemed to be associated with Cafall in his head. Nine years after his death, he could usually think of his dog without the overlay of bitterness he dad felt at the way he had died. Cafall had been the best dog in the world and Bran hadn't had another that was _his_ since then. He felt a momentary pang of resentment for Will, who had never lost anyone he loved that much. Still, there was nothing quite like a friendly dog. He sat down at the table and Carys followed him to lie at his feet.

As Will's mother placed a plate of food in front of him, he said, "I hope I won't be in the way too much, Mrs Stanton."

"Nonsense, it's so quiet here with most of the children gone. Roger and I rattle about the place. Bit of a change from the usual eleven."

"I'm still here," Mary protested, "and most of the others will be back for Christmas day."

"That's just one day," Mrs Stanton said, "Steve is… somewhere in the Indian Ocean?" She looked at her husband for confirmation.

"Mauritius, I believe. And both the twins are away. Paul is on tour and Robin is in Australia," Mr Stanton said. "But we'll have all the grandchildren, Alice."

Mrs Stanton brightened. "I'll have to show you the photos, Gwen sent some lovely pictures of little Sammy, he's grown so much."

**Christmas Shopping**

When Mrs Stanton had enquired what they were doing that day at the breakfast table the next morning, Will had replied promptly through a mouthful of toast, "We're going to be tourists. Bran's never been to Windsor, so I thought we'd take a look at the castle."

They'd arrived in Windsor around mid-morning; the bus had dropped them off right next to the castle. Will had bought a couple of last-minute presents for his nieces and nephews, and Bran had looked for a thank you gift for Mrs Stanton. With Will's advice, he had eventually decided on some bulbs and a fancy pot to plant them in. They would last longer than flowers.

They'd received some odd looks as they wandered around, but Bran was used to that. The dark glasses, worn on such an overcast day, contrasted with his pale hair and made people look twice. He was wearing an old sheepskin jacket instead of the usual dark jumper, but that didn't seem to decrease the effect.

The castle had been fascinating. He'd let Will explain the history of the building. It amused Bran; the English did like their castles. Eventually Will's tales had degenerated into a game of who could make up the most improbable story to explain the various features of the castle. Their laughter had attracted more and more disapproving looks. Finally Bran had told Will that one of the old sunken foundations was actually the original home of King Arthur's round table and that he and his knights had conducted their meetings while still sitting on horseback, until Merlin had become so irritated with their antics that he'd blasted the table into oblivion. Will hadn't laughed at that, and actually looked rather horrified. And Bran had started to think that it wasn't actually as funny as it had originally seemed. In fact it seemed completely lacking in respect. He shook off that feeling rapidly. Why should he respect non-existent people from legends?

By the time they left the castle, they were chatting as usual. It was dark now and Will suggested that they head home. Instead of returning to the bus stop, he followed Will down the hill towards the river. At the bottom Bran looked back up the hill to the castle. It dominated the whole town, towering over the brightly lit shops and bustling crowds of people. They crossed a small bridge over the Thames. Bran watched the people below feeding the dozens of swans lining the banks. Then they walked along a row of quaint old shops. Will stopped at one whose warm glow spilled from the window onto the street. Bran could see that it was filled with all kinds of jewellery.

Bran wondered for a moment why Will was stopping there. Who would he be buying jewellery for? But then he heard him cheerfully call out, "Dad!"

Bran realised where they were. He hadn't realised that Eton was so close. They spent some time looking around the shop until Mr Stanton closed up and gave them a lift home.

**Christmas Day**

It was nice to lie in bed on Christmas morning, Bran thought, relaxing back in the pillows. At home he had to attend the dawn service. This should be the one day of the year where he could lie in, in a warm cosy bed. Not a time to get up in the cold and sing hymns in a cold chapel for hours. The worst part, however, was leaving the service and listening to everyone calling out Christmas greetings and talking of their plans for Christmas feasts with their whole family. It wasn't like that for the Davies. His father had usually refused Mrs Evans' or Mrs Rowlands' invitations, saying that he didn't want to intrude on their Christmas Day. Something in that thought made Bran shiver with a wave of disgust. That was odd, he had been fond of John Rowland wife, she'd been a lovely lady. It had been a real tragedy when she'd died. He wondered what had triggered that feeling.

He heard the sound of someone shutting a door somewhere in the house, and then faint childish giggles. The house was getting more and more full. The next in age of Will's brothers, James, had arrived the afternoon before. His eldest sister Gwen, her husband John and their three small children had driven down from Leeds. And more Stantons were due to arrive later. Another brother, his wife and their small baby, and another sister would be coming from London before lunch.

He heard Will stirring in the bed across the room, and the scent of frying bacon wafted into the room. Maybe it was time to get up?

* * *

Unwrapping Christmas presents before breakfast was fun. To his amusement Will pretended to sulk when he was told that he couldn't open his present first. That honour had gone to baby Sammy, who hadn't been terribly interested in the building bricks but was now swimming in a sea of wrapping paper. The night before, Bran had watched them all wrapping presents for each other, concealed in corners of rooms, trying to hide from everyone else as others decorated the house and cooked around them. It hadn't taken him long to wrap some chocolates for the entire family and Will's present. It was a book which had fascinated Will in the reference library. Now he could read it to his heart's content without worrying about opening times. Bran's gifts weren't very tidy and luckily Mrs Stanton's present had been gift wrapped for him when he'd purchased it.

To his astonishment, Bran had seen a couple of things in the pile under the tree, labelled with his name. His first present had been from Will's parents; a pair of very nice silk walking socks, which would come in very useful.

The most fascinating thing about the day was seeing how very different Will was with his family. He was usually so self-possessed that he often seemed much older than he really was. People deferred to him all the time. He'd mentioned this to Will at breakfast, a lively meal of bacon and eggs. "You're different here."

Will looked slightly puzzled and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"You're the youngest, but you're something of an old one sometimes." Bran tilted his head to one side and regarded Will intently. He was drinking a cup of tea and looked his normal solemn self.

Will stopped dead, the hand holding the cup raised halfway to his mouth.

"That's rather philosophical of you, isn't it?" Will said after a while, setting his cup deliberately on the saucer. "Come on, we should get ready for church."

**New Year's Eve**

The days between Christmas and the New Year had been busy. Bran had gone back to Oxford for the harp recital and it had been almost a relief to get away from the bustle of people. It had been very quiet and he hadn't had any of the unexpected thoughts that had plagued him at the Stantons'.

The Stantons had held a small party on New Year's Eve. Most of the guests had been friends of the younger members of the family who were still in the area, and Will's parents had spent much of the evening at a party at the new vicarage. There had been even more people in the house than on Christmas Day, and it was a bit overwhelming for Bran, used to a quiet New Year's with just his father. People were chatting, and eating and drinking all over the downstairs of the house. Bran had spent most of his time in the warm, cosy kitchen, avoiding the dancing going on in the living room. He could hear the faint sound of the record player over the babble of voices. Bran had met two of Will's old school friends and spoken with several strangers, but mostly he'd just talked to Will.

"Why did you go that way?" Will asked in some surprise when Bran returned to his seat in the corner of the kitchen, with two mugs of mulled wine after he'd made a long detour around the opposite side of the room.

"I'm avoiding your sister," Bran said. He hadn't meant to be so blunt and he blamed the alcohol.

Will looked around the room and Bran could see when he had identified the problem. "Mary? What has she done now?"

"Nothing, really. But she stares at me so much. She always has. It makes me feel like a freak."

"Oh," Will said, an odd note in his voice. "I don't think that's the reason she is staring now." He looked back at his sister, who was watching the two of them. "Mary likes attractive things, and you-," he stopped, a slight flush rising up his cheeks.

Bran stared at his feet. Somehow that was almost worse. He didn't want Will's sister to think of him like that. And Will was embarrassed about her behaviour. He swiftly changed the subject.

The rest of the evening passed smoothly. Mary had joined the dancers and Will had liberated a plate of sausage rolls for their corner. They discussed the football results from the last few days and moved on to the possible weather for the walked planned for tomorrow. He heard someone announce that it was twenty minutes to the New Year and that they should start moving into the other room.

"When the year too dies…" Will said thoughtfully and looked at Bran.

The phrase sounded–, Bran hesitated, it was an odd idea, but he thought it sounded almost testing. As if Will expected him to finish the saying.

"Of course, that isn't really about this time of year, but it's just as applicable," Will said. "You know, that was one of the first things you said to me."

"Must have been doing poetry at school that day," he replied. It didn't sound like him, but it teased at a small corner of his mind. It did seem a little familiar. He gathered up two new glasses of wine and they moved into the other room.

* * *

Bran was lying on the floor of Will's attic room. They'd escaped there just after everyone had wished everyone else a Happy New Year or _Blwyddyn Newydd Dda_ in Bran's case. He'd laughed at Will as he'd drunkenly mangled the pronunciation. It wasn't as bad as his original attempts at Welsh, but it certainly didn't reflect the year of informal lessons that he'd been given. Giving Will Welsh lessons had been a good way to pass the time on long walks.

Will was lying on his bed, his head hanging over the edge and looking down at him. "What are you doing down there? There's a perfectly good bed over there. Comfortable even."

"I like the floor." Bran knew that he didn't want to go to sleep just yet. And the floor was a good a place as any to prevent sleep. "I can see the stars from here."

"Really?" Will turned over and they both stared through the skylight. "Nope, I can't see a thing. Too much light in here."

Will stretched out a hand to turn out the bedside light, but missed. It took him a few tries to flick the small switch into the correct position. And then the darkness settled over them and Bran could really see the stars.

"These are the same stars I see through my window at home, you know."

"Hmm." Bran wasn't really looking for an answer from Will, so this response was fine.

"It is so different here. I sort of expected the stars to change as well."

"It isn't that different." Will sounded surprised. "At least we can see them here, without too many streetlights." Bran heard the rustle of sheets as Will settled under the bed covers.

"Everything is different here." Bran didn't elaborate. But here he didn't feel so out of place. He wasn't the strange albino boy, with the odd father, but just another of the Stanton children's friends. He no longer felt as if something was missing. And Will was different here too.

He voiced something that he had thought about but had never before put into words. "I don't know why you seem so lonely sometimes. You've always got this huge family. Not like me, with just Da."

Will didn't answer and Bran let the silence fall around him. He supposed it wasn't the sort of thing you could really answer. Sometime later he heard the even sound of Will's breathing, indicating that he had fallen asleep. The growing cold reminded him that he was lying on the floor and he climbed into bed.

* * *

The next thing Bran knew was Will shaking him. "Bran, wake up!"

"Whaaa?" Bran said sleepily, still half immersed in the dream." He squinted at Will, in the lamp light.

"You were yelling," Will said, brushing his hair out of puffy, half-asleep eyes. "Bad dream?"

"Yeah." Bran rubbed his eyes. "Not nice at all." He shivered; his heart was still pounding wildly. "It was chasing me. I was running, but couldn't get away. Every where I went, it was there." He hadn't had that particular nightmare for years and wondered why it had returned now. Maybe it was the time of year.

"Doesn't sound pleasant," Will said lightly. "No wonder you were yelling." He patted Bran's shoulder through the layers of blankets, and walked back to his bed. "I'll just turn the light off now. Sleep well."

**Remembering**

"Did you manage to sleep after that nightmare?" Will asked, as they were digging out clothes for the day.

Bran still felt tired, but fortunately he wasn't suffering too badly from everything he'd drunk the night before.

"Yeah, eventually." Bran found an extra jumper that he hadn't remembered packing. It would come in useful when they went outside. "Strange that, I haven't dreamed about that for years. There's this New Year's custom in Wales. They have this thing, it's called the Mari Llwyd, the Grey Mare. A horse's skull on a pole; very creepy. It pretends to bite people." He stopped as he pulled on his jumper over his head. "Used to terrify me as a child, it did. Screaming nightmares. I saw one once, when my father took me to South Wales one New Year. But the dream, it wasn't the same, it seemed clearer, more real. Not just a man with a puppet, it had legs."

"I remember, you told me about that," Will said.

Bran was puzzled. "I did? I haven't thought of the Mari Llwyd for years, since before I met you." It wasn't anything that he wanted to think about. Just the memory of the dream made him feel like a terrified child. "The weirdest thing was that you were there."

"Hmm," Will said. "Maybe it was something else you mentioned." He grinned suddenly. "I wonder what there is for breakfast. I think I can smell kippers."

"Yuck!" Bran let himself be distracted. "Who wants to eat fish for breakfast?"

"That's my Mum's cooking you're disparaging," Will said, with mock indignation and threw a balled up pair of socks at him.

Bran laughed, all thoughts of his dream disappearing as he responded with yesterday's shirt. They tumbled into a scuffle and he grabbed at Will, ruffling his hair until they both collapsed in laughter.

* * *

Later in the day, as he was walking along a footpath in the Chiltern Hills with the Stantons, on their traditional New Year's Day walk, Bran started to think about the dream again. That memory of the Mari Llwyd had been strange. Another one of those random memories; he hadn't missed them while he'd been in Oxford. Suddenly it occurred to him that they only happened when he was around Will. When he was at home there was just a strange sense of emptiness.

Will's reaction to the memories had been odd. He remembered the poetry Will had quoted. What was it? _On the day of the dead, when the year too dies._ A second line popped into his head. _Must the youngest open the oldest hills._ Bran closed his eyes and stood still. The youngest. Was that Will?

He opened his eyes and looked around him. There was patchy grass on each side of the path and a few sparse trees, but that was all. The others were all out of sight around a corner. He must have slowed down while he was thinking; luckily he hadn't tripped over anything in his reverie. He started to speed up, and then Will appeared, coming back around the corner at a trot.

"Hey!" Will called as soon as he was within earshot. "We were wondering what happened to you. Usually you're the one out in front."

"It's nothing," Bran said. "I was just thinking."

"Serious thoughts, to judge from your expression."

"Yeah." Bran decided to ask Will about this. He was so entwined with everything. Maybe there would be a simple answer. Or possibly Bran was just getting worked up about nothing.

"I–, I have these memories," he said. "They don't seem to fit in with everything else. Mostly just odd reactions to things, that don't make much sense." He forced a laugh. "You know, I had this feeling that John Rowland's wife was evil. Isn't that crazy?"

Will didn't smile. "Oh."

"And the Mari Llwyd," Bran continued, "It was too vivid for a normal dream."

Will looked unhappy. "I'm so sorry, Bran."

Bran started to feel a little angry but he was still confused. "Sorry? What did you do to be sorry about?"

"I-," Will said quietly, "I didn't want you to remember."

"You mean you knew about this?" The anger grew. "Was that what those weird questions and unfinished sentences were all about? You mean those memories are real?"

"Yes," Will said simply, and Bran's world was rocked. How could he forget so much? What the hell was going on?

"Will, I-," he suddenly stared at his friend, whose ordinary face had been overlaid by a memory of someone stronger, more powerful, and terrifyingly unfamiliar. "Who _are_ you? I thought I knew you better than anyone."

In an uncharacteristic gesture, Will grasped Bran's face between the palms of his hands, gripping hard, and he looked directly into Bran's eyes. It was an uncomfortable gaze and felt as if Will could see everything he knew. "Sit down and I'll tell you everything."

And Bran knew that nothing would ever be the same.


End file.
